


The Monsters in Your Head

by missmichellebelle



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Depression, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, References to Suicide, Self Harm, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My name’s Blaine,” he says, because for once therapy is sticking in his head—you’ll find something that interests you again one day, and when you do, be sure to hold onto it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Monsters in Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a commission, posted with permission.

It’s only the beginning of Blaine’s third day at the hospital, but it’s the first day they’re letting him go out into the activity room. Not that he wants to go, but it’s not exactly like he has a choice. The nurse comes, makes sure he’s taken his medication, and then leads him down the hall.

He drags his feet. He still doesn’t even want to be at the hospital—if things had gone right, he wouldn’t be. If things had gone right, things would be so much better than they were right now. Right now, everything hurts, and everyone hates him, and why won’t they just let Blaine stay in his room?

“Free time lasts for one hour,” the nurse says to him, in a soft voice that makes Blaine feel like a child.  _Free time_. If it was  _free_ , they would let Blaine stay in his room.

The ward his parents admitted him into is almost all teenagers—there are some people younger than him, but he doesn’t want to think about that, and a few people who might be in their early college years. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with  _them_. He recognizes a few people from his group therapy sessions, but he doesn’t linger on them. Already, they know too much about him, and Blaine feels as if they carry their judgment in their eyes.

There’s a TV playing re-runs of  _I Love Lucy_ , and a bookcase full of board games. There’s a pool table, and a foosball table, and a lot of things that could keep someone entertained.

But Blaine really doesn’t feel like doing much of anything.

So he sits down on the big couch, in the corner, far away from all of the other patients, and makes himself as small as possible. Sometimes, he wonders if he’ll disappear this way.

Maybe then things would be better.

He likes  _I Love Lucy_ , and it even almost makes him smile, but there are too many people around him, too many strangers, and it makes his skin itch. He feels like he’s on a stage, and in the worst way possible. He holds tight to his knees, as if bracing himself against something. He isn’t quite sure what.

The couch dips beside him, and it practically scares him—but it’s just another boy, another patient. His skin is off colored, his face pretty despite how sallow and sick it looks. He’s wearing a big sweater, but even through it, Blaine can catch the very sharp angle of collarbones peeking from the top. Blaine wonders if the long sleeves hide the same things his hide.

This boy looks  _sick_ , but not sick in the way Blaine knows him and the other people in the ward are. He looks honest-to-god sick, like his skin will be both clammy and on fire if Blaine had the gall to reach out and touch it.

The boy turns his head—everything about him is  _sharp_ , from the angles of his jaw to the slope of his nose, to the clear-cutting blue of his eyes. He might look sick, but his eyes are bright and aware. He lifts an eyebrow, his mouth quirking, but doesn’t say anything before he turns away again.

Blaine watches him for the whole hour, until the nurses come to lead them back to their rooms.

*

“And how are you today, Blaine?”

Blaine stares at his hands, trying to memorize the way the folds in his skin cross over his knuckles. The psychiatrist crosses her legs—Blaine can’t even remember her name. He doesn’t care.

“I heard you had your first free time today. Do you want to talk about that?”

 _There was a boy there. He was beautiful_.

But he doesn’t say that.

The psychiatrist leans towards him.

“The nurses tell me that you’ve been cooperating and taking your medication. I’m so glad to hear that, Blaine.”

 _Why do you care? Why does anybody care? I’m not worth anything_.

“You’re trying to get better. We all see it, and we’re so proud of you.”

Blaine just wants to leave.

*

The boy is already there the next day when Blaine arrives, sitting in the same spot on the couch. He doesn’t look as sick today, Blaine notices—his skin has a bit more color, a lovely natural flush that spots on his cheeks. He’s not wearing long sleeves, but Blaine doesn’t see any scars. He feels a hot flush of shame, and sits on the opposite side of the couch, curling up and pressing his face to his knees.

He’s tired.

“Hi.”

Blaine jolts, butting his forehead to his knees and hissing at the dull-flashing throb of pain he feels. He glances up, and there’s the boy, sitting closer, looking at him.

“You’re the boy who was looking at me yesterday,” he says, and his voice is soft and lilting, like music. It doesn’t sound patronizing, the way the nurses or the doctors do. In fact, Blaine kind of likes it.

Until he remembers what it’s saying.

“I-I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and the boy shakes his head.

“Unless you’re planning to beat me up, it’s okay,” the boy says, and Blaine looks at him in surprise.

“I—no. No, I would never.” He looks down at himself, curled up like a turtle inside his shell, and wonders if he could ever put off that sort of vibe. The boy is watching the TV again—today, it’s playing  _Golden Girls_.

“I didn’t think you would.” He crosses his long, slim legs—so slim, in fact, that his pants don’t even hug them properly. And that’s—that’s different, for Blaine, to think like that. Not about boys, because he’s  _always_  thought about boys, but it’s… Been a long time, since he’s cared enough to think about anything.

“My name’s Blaine,” he says, because for once therapy is sticking in his head— _you’ll find something that interests you again one day, and when you do, be sure to hold onto it_.

The boy turns to look at him again, and he smiles.

“Kurt.”

*

Sometimes they do things in group therapy that Blaine doesn’t really understand. Then again, he doesn’t even think the talking helps, which is why he never really says anything, but they still make them do it. Everyone in his therapy group is there for the same reason he is—there are eight of them, all together, and Blaine can see the demons that haunt him in their eyes sometimes.

It scares him, too, to know that he looks that way to other people.

He’d had it under control for so long.

Today, the counselor is making them paint.

Blaine is shit at art—he can write okay, and he used to love music, once upon a time, but he’s never been good with a paintbrush or a pencil. He uses his fingers, because there’s no reason not to, and he ends up painting too many shades of blue.

The counselor  _tsks_  softly, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder, but all Blaine can think of is Kurt.

*

They never watch what’s actually on TV, and, a lot of the time, they sit in silence. Blaine likes the silence, because he doesn’t know what to say that doesn’t sound sad or pathetic. He doesn’t want Kurt to see him that way, the way everyone else sees him. He doesn’t want Kurt to think he’s a failure because he’s there.

It’s only the fourth day since they’ve learned each other’s names when Kurt asks, “so why are you here?”

And Blaine can’t tell him. He tugs on his sleeves, making sure they cover as much skin as possible, and avoids Kurt’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Kurt says, because he doesn’t push Blaine. He doesn’t ask questions the way the counselors and doctors and psychiatrists do, and it makes Blaine feel calmer. Kurt touches the bandage on the back of his own hand—he always has it, but Blaine doesn’t really understand why.

“I want to go home,” Kurt says softly, and it’s the saddest Blaine has ever heard him. He doesn’t know why Kurt is there—there aren’t any hints, and he doesn’t act the same way the other patients do. He’s not there for the same reason Blaine is, and, really, Blaine can’t see anything wrong with him at all. “I don’t belong here. They never should have made me come.”

That hurts. Blaine doesn’t know why, but it slices at him like a knife.

Kurt means so much to Blaine already, just after these few days, because he’s the first person to make Blaine feel normal again.

But Kurt wants to leave.

Blaine can’t do anything for Kurt.

Blaine can’t do anything for anyone.

*

They don’t make him go.

Blaine doesn’t really think of much else, but the nurse comes in and he’s curled up and she tries to touch him and he screams. She left, then, maybe. Blaine doesn’t quite remember.

He can’t breathe. He knows he should stretch out, take in air, but he  _can’t_. Curled in on himself, he draws in shaky breaths and tells himself to  _stop crying_.

_Stop fucking crying._

_This is stupid. Stop being so useless and pathetic. Get up and do something for once in your life._

_This is why no one likes to be around you. All you ever do is this._

_You’re just a burden for everyone. That’s why they sent you here. No one wanted to deal with you anymore._

_You deserve to be alone. That’s why everyone will always leave you._

“No, no, no,” he whispers. “Go away.” It  _hurts_. He wants to claw at his chest and get the monster out, to make it stop, and maybe things will be better. He squeezes his arms around himself too tightly, and wishes for the bed to suck him up. He wishes to disappear. He wishes that—he just wishes everything would stop, that he would stop, because wouldn’t that be better?

“Please stop,” he begs the quiet room, and he’s sobbing so hard his body shakes.

_It’s never going to stop. It’s never going to get better._

_You will always be this way. You will always be broken into pieces._

_No one can put you back together, and no one wants to even try._

_You’ll always be alone. Always_.

“Please,” Blaine whimpers.  _Help me_.

Why doesn’t anyone ever help him?

*

It’s dark out. Blaine likes that he has a window, because he could look out at the stars if he wanted to.

He never wants to.

The door opens, and Blaine thinks it must be a nurse. He didn’t go to therapy today, or to activity. He’d taken his medication, though, so can’t they just leave him alone?

“Blaine?”

Blaine’s shoulders stiffen, and his whole body is sore from being curled up for so long. But he still manages the energy to pick up his head and look over his shoulder, and—yes, there’s Kurt, standing there in the dim light of a lamp.

“Kurt?” Blaine’s voice fights him on its way up, coming out croaked and whispery. “How… What are you doing here?”

The door shuts, and Kurt steps further into the room, and Blaine suddenly wonders if maybe he should have pretended to be asleep. He doesn’t want Kurt to see him this way.

 _If he sees you broken, he’ll run away and leave you. Just like all the others_.

“I snuck out,” Kurt says simply, with a shrug of his shoulders. Blaine knows they don’t lock the doors on all the rooms, but they do check-ups throughout the night. It can’t be very long until they realize Kurt isn’t where he’s supposed to be.

_Maybe he doesn’t need to be watched as much as I do._

“You… Weren’t at free time today,” Kurt starts quietly, and Blaine turns back to stare at the wall. No. No he wasn’t. “Blaine?” There’s a moment that seems to hang in the air, and then Kurt is pressing a hand to the dip between Blaine’s shoulders. It’s the first time he’s been touched today.

It’s the first time he’s really, truly been touched since he was admitted.

“Why are you here?” Kurt asks, voice soft and laced with something— _worry_. Blaine recognizes it. Kurt is  _worried_. About  _him_.

“I’m so scared,” Blaine whispers, and then feels a push on his back.

“Scoot,” Kurt says, and Blaine looks at him tiredly. “Let me sit with you.”

The bed isn’t big, but Blaine scoots until he’s pressed to the wall, and then Kurt is lying beside him. Blaine’s never shared a bed with a boy before.

He never imagined it would happen like this.

“What are you scared of?” Kurt asks, and they’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, Kurt’s face  _so close_  that Blaine has to close his eyes. Because it feels like Kurt can see too much of him. It’s only been a few days, and Blaine shouldn’t feel so naked in front of him. But he does.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine gasps out, and Kurt’s hand touches his arm—his fingers are long and thin, folding gracefully over his skin, and it’s  _too much_. People don’t  _touch_  Blaine. His psychiatrist hugs him after a session, and they do hugs in group therapy, and they  _make_  his parents hug him after family counseling. It shouldn’t be so much, these few simple touches, but they are so, so much.

Kurt is touching him because he  _cares_. No one is telling him to, or asking him to, and Blaine feels a sob shudder up his chest before he can stop it.

He doesn’t open his eyes, but lifts up his arm, pulling up the long sleeves he’s worn since the ambulance first rushed him here.

“Blaine…”

_Please. Please. Please._

_I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry._

_Please._

Kurt’s fingers are cold as they brush over the still-healing scars on the inside of Blaine’s wrists. It’s probably the most intimate way Blaine’s ever been touched, like he’s showing so much of himself right at that moment.

Like Kurt could drop him and he could break into a million more pieces.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine whispers again.

“Don’t be,” Kurt says back.

“I’m so sorry.”  _I’m sorry I’m broken. I’m sorry I can’t do anything right. I’m sorry you’re here. I’m sorry that you have to put up with me_.

“Blaine.” And that’s all Kurt says before he sets down Blaine’s wrists and then hugs him. The motion is enough to shock Blaine into stillness for a second, but then the sobs come back. There are no tears this time—too many tears already, Blaine’s head pounds with how many he’s shed, but he whimpers in the quiet as Kurt’s hands press firmly against his back.

 _Please don’t go away_.

Kurt doesn’t.

*

“So tell me about Kurt.”

Blaine stares at the ground, feels his face flush.

“The nurses found him in your room the other night,” his psychiatrist says—her name is Dr. Wilson, but she told Blaine to call her Judy. “Do you want to talk about him?”

Blaine’s hands fold in the fabric of his sweatpants again and again, and then he lifts his head to meet Judy’s eyes. She smiles at him, encouragingly.

“Okay,” Blaine says, hesitantly.

So he talks.

*

“Are you okay?” Blaine asks. His feet are on the floor today, and his chest doesn’t feel quite so tight.

Kurt shifts under his scrutiny, eyes focused on  _The Facts of Life_.

“I’m fine,” he replies, tersely, but—the color is faded from his cheeks again, and his eyes look more sunken. He’s been this way for a few days, and he seems to be growing steadily worse.

“Kurt…” Blaine doesn’t want to overstep. Even if Kurt knows why Blaine is here now, it doesn’t mean Blaine has the right to know why Kurt is. “Are you sick?”

“I’m  _fine_ , Blaine,” Kurt snaps, and then he stands up and walks away. Blaine watches him, eyes wide, and curls his legs up into the couch.

_I’m sorry._

_I fuck everything up_.

*

Kurt comes back to his room that night, and Blaine doesn’t even know how. After last time—and the nurses had been very mad—Blaine thought it wouldn’t happen again.

But he curls up on Blaine’s bed without speaking, holding Blaine close. And it helps. It helps so much.

“I’m sorry for getting mad at you,” Kurt whispers. And it’s just as good as saying,  _I forgive you_  to Blaine. His chest unknots, and he moves in closer.

“Thank you.” It doesn’t make sense, but it feels right to say. Blaine opens his eyes, and Kurt is looking at him.

“You should,” Kurt says, and Blaine isn’t quite sure what he means. It’s only after the fact that Blaine thinks  _I want to kiss you_. Maybe Kurt knew before Blaine knew himself. The idea coils up, hot and cold, fear and desire, and he moves in for it, quick and fast. Blaine’s never kissed a boy before, but Kurt’s lips are soft and warm and they move against his with the same lack of finesse.

Blaine almost giggles when they pull apart.

 _Thank you_. He wants to say it again. He wants Kurt to understand. Wants Kurt to know that he showed Blaine where his heart was again.

“Kurt…”

Blaine moves his arm to wrap around Kurt, so that he can hold back, but Kurt moves and catches his hand.

“Don’t.”

The moment shatters in front of Blaine’s eyes.

“Kurt?”

“Don’t touch me, please.”

Blaine never has. Kurt touches him,  _holds_  him, because Blaine had needed Kurt to do those things. Any urge he’d had to hold Kurt back had been shadowed, and now it sits there, waiting to be fulfilled, and Kurt’s voice has gone cold.

“But I… I want to.” Blaine wants to hold him close, hold him back, give back everything Kurt has so kindly given him.

“No, you don’t.” Kurt’s voice has an edge to it that Blaine’s never heard before. “People don’t touch me.” His voice drops lower. “I’m disgusting.”

“You—no,  _no_ , Kurt, you’re beautiful—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Kurt’s voice suddenly raises, and Blaine shrinks back, eyes wide. But Kurt isn’t looking at Blaine as if he’s done anything wrong. His arms curl around himself, pressing the baggy shirt to his skin—Kurt is so small underneath his clothes, smaller than Blaine had ever really noticed.

“I should go.”

“Kurt—”

But he’s already up, still covering himself protectively, long arms wrapped around his too-thin frame. The look he sends Blaine is distrusting, and then he’s leaving, and Blaine feels a new sort of pain. It’s not the dull, aching one that sits with him always—the one that’s starting to become fainter, more manageable. It’s sharper than that. It’s the sort of pain that normal people feel, for normal reasons.

Maybe like having a piece of him broken by somebody else.

“Kurt,” he whispers again.

*

“What do you want to talk about today, Blaine?”

Blaine wants to talk about Kurt, but he doesn’t know how.

“Do you want to talk about Kurt again?” Judy asks.

 _Yes_. But it hurts too badly. Kurt hadn’t been at free time today, and for the first time, Blaine had actually watched the old reruns playing on the television. Blaine wants to go see him, but he’s not sure if Kurt wants to see him.

“…can we talk about something else?” Blaine asks, unsure, and Judy smiles.

“Anything you want, Blaine. Why don’t we talk about things you like to do?”

“…I like music,” Blaine starts, hesitant, and he feels a strange pull in his brain. He traces over one of his scars, and then looks up to meet Judy’s eyes. “I used to play instruments, and sing. I loved those things. I think, maybe, I still love those things.”

“I think maybe you do. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Okay.”


End file.
